ps.

He did not stir from his rooms that day; and had there been a Caleb's
faithful ear to listen, his tread, too, might have been heard all that
sleepless night passing to and fro, but pausing oft, along his solitary
floors.

Possibly love would have borne down all opposing seasonings, doubts, and
prejudices, but for incidents that occurred the following evening. On
that evening Graham dined en famille with his cousins the Altons. After
dinner, the Duke produced the design for a cenotaph inscribed to the
memory of his aunt, Lady Janet King, which he proposed to place in the
family chapel at Alton.

"I know," said the Duke, kindly, "you would wish the old house from
which she sprang to preserve some such record of her who loved you as
her son; and even putting you out of the question, it gratifies me to
attest the claim of our family to a daughter who continues to be famous
for her goodness, and made the goodness so lovable that envy forgave it
for being famous. It was a pang to me when poor Richard King decided on
placing her tomb among strangers; but in conceding his rights as to
her resting-place, I retain mine to her name,--Nostris liberis virtutis
exemplar."

Graham wrung his cousin's hand-he could not speak, choked by suppressed
tears.

The Duchess, who loved and honoured Lady Janet almost as much as did
her husband, fairly sobbed aloud. She had, indeed, reason for grateful
memories of the deceased: there had been some obstacles to her marriage
with the man who had won her heart, arising from political differences
and family feuds between their parents, which the gentle meditation of
Lady Janet had smoothed away. And never did union founded on mutual and
ardent love more belie the assertions of the great Bichat (esteemed by
Dr. Buckle the finest intellect which practical philosophy has exhibited
since Aristotle), that "Love is a sort of fever which does not last
beyond two years," than that between those eccentric specimens of a
class denounced as frivolous and artless by philosophers, English and
French, who have certainly never heard of Bichat.

When the emotion the Duke had exhibited was calmed down, his wife pushed
towards Graham a sheet of paper, inscribed with the epitaph composed by
his hand. "Is it not beautiful," she said, falteringly--"not a word too
much or too little?"

Graham read the inscription slowly, and with very dimmed eyes. It
deserved the praise bestowed on it; for the Duke, though a